Douh said he occasionally gets a day-off, so I proposed we go out for dinner on one of them. That's what we did this evening. We headed for a place where I'm normally seen in the company of females, but the chef is so divine there that I made an exception in Douh's case. Here's to hoping that no one gets the wrong idea. Let me paint a picture so you can get a sense of what it must've been like for D.

It was one of those more upscale Prague watering holes.

Without knowing in advance where we were headed, Douh opted for a pinstripe getup and matching coat -- a sartorial turnaround compared to how he normally dresses which made me do a double-take. Standard street wardrobe and gear for Prague's Men in Black includes a jumper, insulated hiking boots, several layers of sweaters, a thick down coat, leggings (he told me, I didn't see these personally!), tube socks, a hat with thick ear flaps, a scarf, and mittens. Since our situation is normally reversed, I'd dressed down, but on what promised to be this most casual of evenings, I became one of Douh's unwitting fashion victims, dressed to kill as he was.

The patrons gawked as we entered. Here's what they must have been thinking: either we're two foreigners -- in which case it was acceptable for a black and a white man to be seen together in public -- or we were two resident foreigners, who still "haven't gotten used to the way things are done here." There isn't a soul in downtown Prague who would have the courage to mutter something racial, but their looks told it all. You just know what's on peoples' minds as their eyes follow us to the back of the restaurant where we take up our perch, alongside the staircase leading to the bar downstairs. Douh in his pinstripe zoot suit and fedora, me with my wetback and trenchcoat, everyone must be imagining: what are they pushing, these two?

Our menus arrive. The waitress takes our orders. I tell Douh under my breath to request whatever he fancies, to pay no mind to prices. I desperately hope he doesn't think I'm trying to grease him. It's only right that I do this since a) he was the driving force behind Prague's Men In Black, and b) he didn't get paid for fixing contacts, meetings, and diverting more of his energy to making the article what it was than earning a living. I'm likely indebted to him for much more than a dinner, though I try not to keep score, because I know the Africans don't. Douh might beg to differ and inform me that it's rather me who's helping them -- flooding their predicament with much-needed exposure -- though this also does little to diminish my sense of being beholden to them.

The miserable conclusion to this story is that since no white people are in any sort of mortal danger, no Czech government body will act upon any of my recommendations.

Douh's tomato cube salad and chicken plate arrive. I ask him if he'd like to order anything else, so he kindly requests a coke. As I chew my own food and watch Douh meticulously dissect a chicken wing, I have an urge to ask him how often he can afford to buy meat knowing, as I do, that the bulk of his earnings are wired down to Bangui or are consumed by other overheads, but I can't summon the courage. I never realized what a pleasure it can be to witness someone relishing their food, their savoring of every morsel (note to self: eat slower. Shoveling it in like a barbarian does have a tendency to be so unbecoming).

Our conversation shifts to trivial matters, and somehow our banter seems more stilted than customarily. Weird, I thought, in that we're not located too far from where we normally chat, as the crow flies.

There's a touch of tension in the air and I sense that Douh's not at his most relaxed, like he's on tenterhooks from knowing that he'd never step into a joint like this alone. I get the feeling I've placed him into a pressure-cooker -- a white Czech straitjacket. It's at once a world Douh's fully familiar with -- even an active part of -- yet one he never fully engages with. For the Africans, this is culturally-sophisticated society that extends a hand to feed them but also spanks them back into line. It's a Czech safety mechanism that ensures our darker-skinned newcomers learn to keep their place, early. A status of permanent second-class citizenship, a price they're willing to cough up for the benefits today's Czech dream allows. Doesn't sound like much of a bargain to me, even though I know how Česko is a major step up in the world for them.

I pave over all of these corrosive thoughts with the inspirational belief that I'm "living the example I want to see." I'm "Ghandi-ing" it in my own sort of way.

Still, I'm offput by Douh's silence. I watch him chew with just about the most attention to detail I've ever seen in an eater, though I know this heightened attention to detail is borne of a different sort of disease: the desire not to mess up. The desire to want to impress those who might otherwise judge him harshly. The desire not to make a fool of himself in a land where the natives are only too willing to accuse him of the worst things or for the slightest slip-up. People are always at their most perfect when they're most afraid. Only then do their actions become fluid and flawless.

It would seem that my premeditated attempt to foster a deeper dialogue between us backfired tonight. I hope this doesn't set us back too far, because -- damn -- because I knew before I even set foot in this place that this gambit was going to be risky.

(excerpted from A SAD AND TRAGIC TALE OF MISTER DOUH, by Adam Daniel Mezei)